In many Native homes, when the sun slipped behind the hills and the drums grew quiet, people returned to their tipis to rest —
but the owl remained awake with the night.
My grandfather once said:
“When the village sleeps, the owl keeps watch for us.”
The owl never made a fuss.
It perched silently on a branch near the lodge,
watching shadows move through the darkness.
Sometimes it was a weasel sneaking into the chicken coop.
Other times, a strange wind brushing past a child’s tent.
To the elders,
the owl was a weather whisperer —
if it flew close to camp, winter was coming early.
To children,
its call was the earth’s lullaby,
a story told when mothers were too tired to speak.
To hunters,
it was a silent guide —
if the owl flew east,
they believed the spirit of the animal waited in that direction.
And though its voice could send a shiver down the spine,
no one chased the owl away.
Because they knew:
